by Jenna Jaxon
Duncan swore under his breath. “Grayson, send a footman to Morehouse. Tell him if he’s not back in ten minutes, he’s finished here. I need to know if Morley is there.”
As Grayson went off at a trot, Manning asked, “What’s going on, Dalbury?”
Duncan ground his teeth. “Grimes has informed me I have a spy in my household.”
“A spy?” Manning’s eyes widened. “Who would spy on you?”
“Not on me. On Juliet.” Duncan scowled so hard his face hurt.
“What? Who? And why?”
“The downstairs maid, Janie. Grayson hired her during my trip in Italy. It seems for most of this year she has also been in the employ of St. Cyr. She alerted him to my absence when Katarina and I sailed in July. Anything the servants have been privy to, she has passed along to the viscount.” Duncan’s scowl deepened. “I always thought it too damned convenient that St. Cyr appeared the day after we left.”
“Why would she do it? I thought you paid your servants generously.” Manning frowned and crossed his arms over his chest.
“I do, but her sister has warmed St. Cyr’s bed ever since he arrived in London. She got into an interesting situation and Janie agreed to pass on information in exchange for his support of the sister and the child when it arrived.”
“How did you find this out?” Manning shook his head at this revelation.
“After he told St. Cyr his marriage would likely be upheld, Grimes here went to Paris to corroborate the witness’s testimony he had received. One of them, a Sophie DuBois, was very forthcoming. It seems St. Cyr also seduced Sophie, who has born him a child.” Duncan pounded the sideboard, making the glassware dance. “And this is the man who would have married my sister!”
Before he could continue, the footman stumbled in the door, red-faced and gasping for breath.
He pounced on him. “What news man? Was Morley there?”
The footman shook his head and gulped. “No, my lord.” Another quick gasp. “He has not been seen there today.”
“Good work, Charles.” Duncan flipped him a coin, which the boy caught handily. Waving him away, he turned to Jack. “He’s got Morley.”
“Who?”
“St. Cyr. He lured him to your house, knowing you were away, and has abducted him.” His face grew grim. “I can’t help but think he means to kill him. The outraged husband kills the adulterous lover.”
“Aren’t you seeking an annulment?”
“What need if Morley is dead? Juliet would stay married to St. Cyr just so her baby would not be a bastard.” Duncan strode into the hallway, followed on his heels by Manning.
“’Struth.” Manning’s eyes widened.
“I just pray we’re not too late.” He then spoke to Grayson, who had been hovering nearby, apparently expecting another summons. “Send to Bow Street immediately. Tell Reginald Matthews to meet us at 18 Fenchurch Street on a matter of utmost urgency regarding my sister.”
Grayson blinked but otherwise showed no discomposure. “At once, my lord.” He retreated and Duncan bellowed again.
“Grimes.” He and Manning threw capes around them against the damp cold. The pale face of the solicitor appeared in the doorway to the study. “Stay put,” he commanded. “I’m going to find my brother-in-law.”
Manning ran to keep up with him as they left the house for the stables. “Which brother-in-law, Dalbury?”
Duncan fixed him with a vulture’s eye and a sardonic grin. “Oh, I hope to find both of them. This will be so much more fun if they are together.”
* * * *
“Ah, at last I think we are ready.” The satisfaction in St. Cyr’s voice reflected in his entire body, from hard, glittering eyes to arrogant stance. He regarded the now red-hot poker tip with something akin to rapture as he swung around to stalk slowly toward his prey.
Amiable trembled and stared in horror at the fiend wielding the glowing iron bar.
St. Cyr’s grin grew wider. “You are not the bold man you were three hours ago perhaps, eh, monsieur? I see you are not so eager for my next little ‘persuasion,’ non? I suppose you will try to scream for help? It will do no good. My neighbors are reluctant to concern themselves in my affairs. I made sure of that before I brought my lovely Juliet here. I wanted to make sure no one would be interested if they heard screams coming from the house. Money is such a good substitution for interest.”
The trembling increased and Amiable lowered his head, cowering as St. Cyr crept closer. God, he could smell the heated iron as his sadistic captor stopped a mere two feet before him. Amiable cleared his throat, which seemed dry all of a sudden. What if he couldn’t speak? He drew in a quick breath and whispered, “St. Cyr.” He managed to glance up.
The young man before him, still grinning, cocked his head. “You have something to say, Monsieur Morley?” He held the poker out, not touching Amiable but close enough for the intense heat to singe the hairs on his chest.
“Juliet. Juliet must not be harmed.”
“Of course not, mon ami.” Triumph sounded in the Frenchman’s voice. “My beautiful wife will be quite safe. I will make sure of it.” St. Cyr’s eyes brightened. He licked his lips.
“I need to tell you…” Amiable trailed off into a mumble as he hung his head.
“Tell me what, monsieur?” The viscount lowered the poker a trifle, now threatening Amiable’s exposed stomach.
The pain of a wound there would be exquisite.
“Tell you…”
St. Cyr reached forward with his free hand to grasp Amiable’s shoulder. “Tell me where she is?”
“Tell you to go to hell.”
Amiable’s right foot shot out and up, landing a solid kick to the man’s groin. St. Cyr lifted off the floor, once again seeming to fly through the air. When he landed, the poker dropped harmlessly beside him.
Another kick to the loose chair leg and it broke free. Working his left foot and leg in the ropes allowed Amiable greater movement. He stood, his arms still bound behind the chair. Handicapped but mobile.
He looked around for some weapon to hand, but none presented itself except the poker. Impossible to use without hands. He kicked it, sending it sailing into a corner. A groan forced his attention back to St. Cyr, who had rolled up from the floor, cursing in French, trying to stand and face his opponent.
With a battle cry, Amiable charged straight toward him. At the final moment, St. Cyr turned to avoid the onslaught, and Amiable launched himself at his tormentor. The chair, with his considerable weight behind it, hit the Frenchman in the back with a solid crack. Bones crunched. He fell directly onto his adversary, knocking the scoundrel to the ground and springing loose all the joins in the chair.
Amiable groaned as the ropes gave way, his muscles screaming at the torture they had endured for hours. He got to his feet, shaking off the ropes and pieces of broken chair. He swung his arms, flexed his hands, and rolled his shoulders, trying to bring some feeling other than agony into them. Once the worst of the pain receded, he bent over the man he had flattened.
There were still sighs of life—a groan, the twitch of a foot, the wheeze in a struggle for breath in mistreated lungs. Amiable searched the wreckage until he spied the chair leg—the one he had first knocked loose with his leg. It had remained unbroken even when his body had crashed into St. Cyr’s. He grabbed it and hefted its weight. He swung the club to and fro as he limbered up his abused muscles.
Whap! He slammed the chair leg into St. Cyr’s torso, cracking several ribs. A howl of pain ripped from the fallen man’s throat as his head came up off the cold fieldstones. A tap lower to a leg elicited another scream followed by pleading and groveling in rapid French.
“Isn’t it fortunate, St. Cyr, that your neighbors have been paid to ignore screams coming from this house?” Amiable grinned, slapping the cudgel against his hand. “I’d like to try some persuading of my own.” He raised his makeshift club and brought it down on the man’s hand
.
That scream should certainly have brought someone running. Pity no one would pay attention.
Standing over St. Cyr’s trembling body, he lifted the club again and again, letting it fall into his hand with a heavy, meaty thud.
His tormentor cringed and screamed curses.
Tiring of the game, Amiable lifted the chair leg. “I wish I could muster some remorse at killing you, St. Cyr, but I must confess I feel less than I would at shooting a viper sunning itself on a rock. However, I have never shirked unpleasant tasks. I shall not start now.”
The Frenchman pushed against the floor, tried to slide backward, his face twisted in terror.
Amiable raised the club high, one last time. Finally he and Juliet would be rid of this bane to their lives. Pent-up rage poured through him as the club began its descent, whistling with the power behind it.
“Morley, hold.”
Amiable froze, schooled by ten years in the army to obey instantly. The killing blow halted, inches from St. Cyr’s face. Panting in fury, Amiable scarcely glanced at the three men crowding into the doorway. He kept his searing gaze pinned squarely on the whining figure at his feet. “Why?” His breath came in great gasps as he strove to control his rage at the interruption. “He has caused enough suffering to Juliet, to me, to our families. He will never agree to either divorce or annulment, or if he does, it will drag on for years. I need to end it now.” He raised the club again.
“He’s not married to her.” Dalbury’s calm voice cut through Amiable’s black rage. “He never was.”
Amiable snapped his head around and stared at his brother-in-law. Jack and an unknown man had eased through the doorway behind him. “But the marriage certificate? The court’s decree? They ruled it valid.”
“Tell him, Matthews.”
“Invalid.” The man Dalbury called Matthews spoke with authority. “Not worth the paper it was written on. Neither was the court order. Another clever forgery.”
“Forgery?” Amiable’s shoulders slumped. Had the nightmare ended at last?
“Your marriage has been the true one since July.” Dalbury grinned at him.
Amiable returned his stare to the man at his feet. Fury licked through his veins. “And you touched her.”
Cold rage infused every syllable. The club dropped to the floor with a hollow rattle as he fell upon St. Cyr, clutching the man’s neck, squeezing the life from the bastard who had dared lay hands on his wife.
Suddenly his arms were pinioned behind his back as Dalbury and Jack pulled him off the viscount. Matthews hoisted the semiconscious St. Cyr to his feet and helped him through the door. Jack held Amiable while Dalbury searched for a drink.
“Good God, look at you, man.” Jack inspected the burns on Amiable’s shoulders and torso. “He needs a doctor.”
Unable to locate any spirits, Dalbury returned, stripped off his cloak, and put it around Amiable’s shoulders. “I’ll take him back to Dunham House. You send for Pritchett and meet us there.” He slapped his brother-in-law on the back. “Pritchett can dress your wounds and then you can play knight in shining armor and go rescue your wife.”
Dazed, unable to believe the ordeal over, Amiable nodded as he entered Dalbury’s carriage and sat, a peculiar ringing in his ears. He turned to remark on it to Dalbury, but his eyelids grew heavy as he slumped against the soft leather.
* * * *
Amiable awoke in Duncan’s office, sprawled in a leather chair as Dr. Pritchett applied a salve to the burns on his chest. He shook his head to clear it as the doctor put a dressing over the last wound.
“These dressings need to be changed every day lest the burns fester.” The physician tied the bandage with an expert hand. Dalbury stood by the window, nodding at the instructions. Jack leaned against the wall, a glass in his hand.
“Thank you, Pritchett.” Dalbury’s gaze turned to Amiable. “Ah, I see you have rejoined the land of the living. Brandy?” Not waiting for an answer, he poured a good, stiff half a glass and pushed it into his hand.
Pritchett left and Amiable took a deep gulp, relaxing as the spirits spread their warmth throughout his body. He eyed the marquess and simply said, “Tell me.”
Dalbury refreshed his drink. “Grimes came to me this morning, fresh off a boat from France, where he has been for the past week. Two days before Christmas Eve he had indeed told St. Cyr that with affidavits from the witnesses and the proxy, his marriage to Juliet would likely be deemed legal under English law. But the letter from the magistrate’s office in Paris, stating Paul d’Eberhart had died, raised questions for him.” He sent Amiable a speaking glance. “Considering the lengths St. Cyr had gone to prove the marriage valid, such a convenient death seemed too convenient. So he managed to procure passage for Paris.”
“But how?”
“His wife’s from Hamble and her family’s side business allowed for a quick trip across the Channel. I didn’t dare inquire too closely. Still, his instincts proved good.”
“St. Cyr had killed the magistrate?” After his most recent dealings with the viscount, he’d put nothing past the brutal devil.
“No, but Grimes took the original marriage certificate with him. Once in the magistrate’s offices he asked to see a sample of d’Eberhart’s signature.” Duncan’s eyes flashed. “They didn’t match. Then he asked about the date of d’Eberhart’s death. February second. The certificate was dated February twenty-third.”
“So St. Cyr signed it himself?” Jack asked.
“No. Paul d’Eberhart did officiate at the secret proxy wedding as the other witnesses attested to. Only Paul d’Eberhart, fils, signed the certificate, not Paul d’Eberhart, père. The elder d’Eberhart was a close friend of Count de Mallain. Their sons were best friends. Little wonder the deception presented itself to St. Cyr’s fiendish mind after the elder died.” Dalbury drained his glass and set it back on the sideboard.
Amiable stared blindly into the room. All that anguish and fear of the past few months for naught. Damn, but he’d enjoy beating St. Cyr unconscious again—if he didn’t strangle him first. He hadn’t seen his wife in a week because of that blackguard. Abruptly he jumped up and slammed the crystal glass down on the desk. “Can I trouble you for the loan of a shirt and jacket?”
“Of course.” A smile puckered Dalbury’s mouth. “You just decided you’re cold?”
“Oh, no.” Amiable grinned at him, the load of grief and worry slipping from his shoulders. “I am going to find my bride.” He headed for the door then gave his brother-in-law a backward glance. “I give you fair warning—she will be restricted to bed rest for at least a week. Husband’s orders.” He slammed the door in his haste to change. No matter. The sound of laughter followed him down the hall.
* * * *
The carriage stopped at the address Katarina had given him, and Amiable looked askance at the run-down houses and broken cobblestones in this seedy neighborhood. Juliet had been here for a week? He shuddered as he left the carriage but reminded himself the subterfuge had indeed worked. No one had found his wife, and considering this place, he doubted anyone ever would have.
Almost nine o’clock on New Year’s Eve. The perfect time for a reunion with Juliet. Amiable entered the gray lapboard building to discover a masquerade in full swing. Laughing and talking, all manner of men and women packed the first room. Most wore costumes more than a little risqué.
A woman raced by, squealing with laughter, garbed as a harem girl, filmy pink silk pants and tunic showing all her legs and a great deal more of her body than expected. He shouldn’t be surprised considering the reputation of this house. Following right behind her, a jaunty Cavalier had a lecherous leer on his face. Beyond them were assorted Greek gods and goddesses, pirates, highwaymen, queens, and one very charming shepherdess.
Amiable made his way through the sea of revelers to stand before the shepherdess. Her gossamer white skirt over fashionable small hoops, a not too daringly low-cut bodice, a
nd dark ringlet curls all proclaimed her a sweet, innocent maid. He knew better.
She flirted shamelessly with a tall fair gentleman dressed in Grecian garb, thunderbolts strapped in a quiver on his back. Zeus perhaps.
He placed a sensuous kiss on her palm.
She withdrew her hand and shook her head at him. A wave of her shepherd’s crook and he melted into the boisterous throng. As she turned toward Amiable, the woman changed before his eyes. The gay coquette disappeared and the sharp businesswoman took her place.
“Good evening, Mr. Morley. I trust your presence means the business is finally settled to your satisfaction?”
“Good evening, Madame Vestry. Indeed, everything is as we have wished. Juliet is undisputedly my wife. I am here to take her home.”
“Very good. Follow me, please.”
Madame Vestry led Amiable through several rooms full of masqueraders to a polished staircase. On the second floor, she led him to the very end of a corridor and indicated the last door on the right. “This has been Lady Juliet’s room during her stay. I deemed it the only one comfortable enough for her.” The woman smiled as she produced a key and unlocked the door. “I will be glad to return to it myself. You may, of course, spend as much time as you wish before you leave. I think you may have things to discuss?”
The obvious suggestion in her words made Amiable look away. “Thank you, Miss Vestry. We do have things to discuss, but we will try to trespass on your hospitality but a little.”
Madame Vestry waved her hand. “Life’s pleasures—wicked or otherwise—sometimes come only once.” Her gaze fastened on his face and she licked her red lips, a seductive smile playing across them. “Enjoy your discussion, Mr. Morley.”
Amiable caught his breath as she turned and sauntered down the hallway, her hoops swaying in a manner designed to provoke a man’s desire. An exceptional woman in many ways.